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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622190">this moment now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukupikron/pseuds/glukupikron'>glukupikron</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Fluff, Recovery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:28:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukupikron/pseuds/glukupikron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have money, you know,” Amber says.  “From the divorce. You wouldn’t have to work.  Neither of us would.”  She’s tapping away again, her eyes glued back on her phone, but Abigail can see the faint flush rising on her cheeks.</p><p>or</p><p>Amber, Abigail, and a quiet moment (although everyone on the internet is about to hear about it).</p><p>Inspired by fishklok's art.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amber/Abigail Remeltindtdrinc</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>this moment now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>my hand slipped</p><p>inspired by fishklok's <a href="https://fishklok.tumblr.com/post/629834595070853120/quick-sketch-of-the-ship-none-of-you-asked-for">delightful</a> <a href="https://fishklok.tumblr.com/post/629843931565260800/amber-x-abigail-queens-of-dethklok-australia">artwork</a>.</p><p>no content warnings apply that i can think of: there's some wine and some references to past trauma, but they're both non-explicit</p><p>(this is self indulgent and unbeta'd so if you spot any errors, i do apologize!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I always wanted straight hair,” Abigail says, carding her fingers gently through Amber’s deep brown waves. She’s standing behind Amber, plaiting it carefully, trying to remember how to French braid. Practicing fine motor movement is good for her recovery, her physical therapist says.</p><p>“And I always wanted curly hair,” Amber replies, tapping away at her phone. “Everyone wants what someone else has.”</p><p>“Mm,” Abigail says, and, “Anything interesting on the internet tonight?”</p><p>“Jessi got ass implants and she won’t stop showing them off. Look at her Instagram. It’s awful.” Amber tilts the phone up to show her.</p><p>Abigail makes a face. “I mean, if that’s what she wanted... good for her,” she says. She’s not always sure about this sharp, critical side of Amber, the one obsessed with wealth and glamour, but she thinks the rest of her makes up for it: the watchful eyes; the dry, sparking wit, hot enough to light a fire somewhere deep inside her; the seemingly endless patience for her son and for her ex-husband’s antics (not so much that she hadn’t divorced him, of course, but enough to play the long game).</p><p>They stay in companionable silence, Amber texting someone a link to some celebrity’s funny tweet, Abigail finally finding the rhythm for her fingers and making progress on the braid.</p><p>“Is there anything else about my life that you want?” Amber says after a moment, tilting her head up to look at Abigail. Her eyes cut from Abigail’s face to her son, asleep on the armchair across from them after he’d spent something like twenty minutes talking both their ears off about Hot Wheels, and how he wants a guinea pig, and why his favorite Disney movie is Bolt. (Amber says Abigail should be flattered—he doesn't often speak with such enthusiasm and at such length with people he doesn't trust.)</p><p>Abigail pauses, Amber’s hair still twined through her fingers. The boy’s face is peaceful, and under one arm he clutches a stuffed Facebones toy. His reddish hair has clearly skipped a generation, so it matches his grandmother’s shade more than his father’s. He has his mother’s fine jawline, and her serious, watchful disposition when he’s awake.</p><p>“I have money, you know,” Amber says. “From the divorce. You wouldn’t have to work. Neither of us would.” She’s tapping away again, her eyes glued back on her phone, but Abigail can see the faint flush rising on her cheeks.</p><p>Abigail knows the money is mostly Dethklok’s, Pickles compelled by some avuncular instinct to at least provide for this kid, whose parentage is no fault of his own. Abigail’s own future is tied to Dethklok regardless—either she works on their album and takes their money that way, or she lives off of Amber’s alimony, pulled from Seth’s accounts that draw directly from Dethklok’s coffers. Or she goes some other route entirely, tries to cobble together work with other bands, other labels, trying to ignore the faint whispers that trail her, about Toki and Magnus and months spent underground in a sour, moldering hell. Sometimes she thinks packing it all up and being a hermit in the Pacific Northwestern woods would be preferable to being an endless source of gossip for the hundreds of Dethklok-centered tabloids, who still haven’t let up on her and Nathan being an item, even after Nathan himself had said there was nothing there.</p><p><em>That</em> had been a whole other project, trying to convince him that they were not a couple and were not going to <em>be</em> a couple, and then after that, that she could walk just fine by herself, that she <em>did</em> want to live in her own house, out from the shadow of Mordhaus, that she could get to her physical therapy appointments without Nathan and a cadre of Klokateers escorting her there, that she was doing just fine, <em>thank</em> you.</p><p>When the paparazzi finally learned her address, though, she had graciously accepted Charles’ offer of some new privacy technology Dethklok’s team had been working on, if only for the peace of mind. She can’t walk fast enough to escape them anymore, not with her cane, which is leaning against the side table, its soft grey handle just visible behind the two wine glasses she and Amber have been sipping from. The wine is a rich red that Abigail had off-handedly mentioned liking once while they were texting and that Amber had remembered and bought for their date, a gesture that Abigail found both touching and impressive, given it had been a single text in a volley of hundreds over the past few months.</p><p>“I...had a big family, growing up,” Abigail says finally, twisting another strand of Amber’s hair between her fingers. “It was nice. Loud, a lot of the time, but I didn't mind.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Amber says, and Abigail sees the corners of her lips raise slightly. An acceptable answer, then.</p><p>Abigail finishes her braid, and it’s not her best work, but every strand is where it should be, and it looks neat and well-formed. “There,” Abigail says, pressing a light kiss to the top of Amber’s head. “Done.”</p><p>Amber flips to the photos app on her phone and then the front-facing camera and admires Abigail’s handiwork. “Gorgeous,” she says, and then tilts the phone slightly upwards so Abigail’s shoulder comes into frame. “Bend down,” Amber says, giving Abigail’s shirt a slight tug.</p><p>Abigail shifts her weight to her stronger leg, and leans forward to press her cheek against Amber’s.</p><p>They look good together, she thinks. The light from the fireplace reflects from Amber’s eyes and catches the soft reddish highlights of Abigail’s hair, and Amber snaps the photo before Abigail has a chance to brush a few loose strands off Amber’s forehead.</p><p>“You mind if I put this on Insta?” Amber asks. The app is already open on her phone, and she’s typing out a caption for it even as she asks: “evening with the gf” followed by a rainbow of heart emojis. Her finger is hovering over the “Share” button, but she’s looking up at Abigail for confirmation, and Abigail knows if she says no, Amber will quietly save it to her drafts with only a small pout of protest. There are at least a dozen photos in there, and from time to time Amber will open up her drafts and they'll scroll through the pictures together, Amber murmuring about how cute they look together, or how smart Abigail looks in a new suit, or how much fun they had at that restaurant.</p><p>Abigail is still hesitant about publicity. She knows as soon as it’s up that there are going to be a dozen gossip rags slapping the picture up on their websites, and she’s probably going to have to enlist Dethklok’s legal team to send out Cease and Desists to the more aggressive ones, but they’ve already been questioning her and Amber’s relationship for the last few months, and Abigail’s not sure she cares anymore. It’ll give them something new to talk about, so maybe they’ll leave that Revengencer nightmare firmly where it belongs: in the past.</p><p>“Go for it,” she says finally, and Amber’s grin at this unexpected approval kick-starts something in Abigail’s heart, a feeling of love and comfort and relief, like maybe things are going to keep getting better, that there's some life for her after everything, that eighteen months of recovery and hard work and support have finally cut a swath for her through the fog and despair from almost two years ago.</p><p>“After you post it, though, put the phone away,” Abigail says, and settles onto the couch next to Amber. She looks at Abigail, her eyes sparkling with playful challenge, and then she acquiesces, tucking the phone under one of the throw pillows and leaning forwards for a kiss.</p><p>They'll check the news later.</p>
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